


Just Believe In Me

by Catchclaw



Series: Abacab [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person, Schmoop, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean realizes that sleeping with Sam doesn't resolve a whole lot, not really, and considers how little control he really has over their future. Over what's to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Believe In Me

So here’s the thing, with Sam.

He’s in like perpetual motion.

Even when he’s sitting still, stuck in one place, he’s still wandering.

He’s always been that way. Used to be books—that’s how he used to do it. Could wish himself away from anywhere; anywhere we were, where Dad was, he didn’t want to be, not really. So he read all the freakin’ time. Never got car sick staring at those little tiny words. Never got bored, either, even when he was reading something for like the fifth time in a row. They were his way out.

In more ways than one, I guess.

So it’s funny that he doesn’t read anymore.

Oh, he reads the stupid laptop. Whatever websites we need, or he thinks we might, one day.

And he reads whatever tomes Bobby or the local librarian digs out, digs up for us.

But he doesn’t read books anymore.

I mean, it’s fine. Doesn’t affect me either way. It’s just funny, how things change like that.

We spent the day in the car and I guess I thought that, after last night, it might be different between us, you know?

Not like moonlight and rainbows and chocolates or any dumb shit like that, but I thought maybe it would feel different to be alone together, now. 

But no, we just fell right back into us, into doing what we do, what we usually talk about in the car. What we don’t.

I mean—

What would I say, anyway?

“I love you?” He already knows that.

He’d better. Or else he’s dumber than I thought.

“I’ll save you?” He knows I will.

I wish I was as sure as he is, about that.

“Don’t leave me?”

Right. I don’t think so. Because that is so not me, to talk like that. Hell, even thinking it makes me nervous.

Because really? That’s my job. To make sure he doesn’t leave. Make sure he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t have to.

We got to the motel after dinner, about 8, and he went out for a walk or something like right away.

He needed some space, but it’s not like he’d just say that. Not like he’d be straightforward about some simple shit like that.

I mean, the bastard will kiss me, fucking make me crazy with his mouth like he did this morning which I am all in favor of, but for some reason he still can’t say, _hey, Dean, I need some time alone. Please excuse me while I go emo around the block for awhile, while I ponder the fate of the world and my part in it and try to forget about everything that’s good in my life_.

About me.

Hell, the boy doesn’t even need free weights. His angst has its own resistance.

It’s like, everything’s normal. Everything’s not.

This morning, when he looked up at me, his fingernails in my hips, his mouth busy with my cock, it was like I could see the normal and the not right there, all at once. In his face.

It was perfect. It was awful. Because it’s not gonna last.

Ok, now I know I have to stop thinkin’ about this because it’s like he’s infected me with the emo, or something.

At dinner, he bitched at me about my bloody cheeseburger and I gave him hell for ordering his dressing on the side because who does that? Did he see that on Oprah? He ordered coffee [no cream] and I had dessert [Boston creme] and it was like old times. Like every other fucking time, the past year.

But it made me sad, a little, the routine-ness of it all. And then I got pissed at myself for feeling that way, because I don’t cry after sex. I don’t get weepy over “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” I didn’t bawl at the end of _Titanic_ ; hell, I haven’t seen it, much less memorized the last ten minutes like some people I could name.

Because, goddamn it, I am not a sentimental douchebag. That’s Sammy’s thing, so feeling like this is just pissing me off.

I wish he’d come back already. I don’t like having all this time. Just to think.

At dinner, he reached for the pepper and knocked over the salt.

I grabbed it as soon as it fell, threw a chunk over my shoulder. Automatic.

And he just looked at me, amused, and said: “Do you really think that’s gonna help?”

And I said “Yeah,” without thinking, because it’s tradition, it’s routine: that’s what you do when salt spills. And I know he could have quoted all the lore in the damn world that explains it and cited names and dates and shit that says why you do it, and yet he doesn’t believe in it anymore?

He doesn’t need to, I guess. He believes in me.

That I’m all the protection he needs, from all the fucking evil we know and the stuff we haven’t come across yet.

No holy water. No fire. No salt.

Just me.

After last night, he’s convinced that all he needs is me.

Which.

Fuck.

The door opens and he strolls in, windblown and a little red in the face.

“Hey,” he says, raises his eyebrows like he does. Shuts the door.

I reach over and turn off the light.

“Uh,” he says, annoyed. “What the fuck, Dean?”

And I see better in the dark than he does, always have, and I’m practically in his face before he sees me, my fingers on his shoulders before he reacts, my tongue around his before he moves, sighs, shoots his arms around my waist.

And it’s weird.

It’s like, last night: this was weird and new. And now: it feels good and old and really, really temporary.

I’m afraid he’s gonna get away if I let go. And so I don’t.

I tug him away from the door and he lets me, happy just to follow along. My knees hit a bed and I let myself fall, try to pull him after and that doesn’t really work so well because Gigantor trips and falls like right on top of me and fuck! is he heavy!

He makes this hilarious “Ooof!” sound and catches my chest with his head and I start laughing, even though I can’t breathe with him on me like this and then he’s giggling and wheezing into my face, trying to roll off and I grab him, still choking, push my hands under his jacket, under his shirt, and when I find his skin he hisses and his breath hitches and he wriggles up and plants his mouth on mine. No preamble or anything, just straight to _choke the fuck on my tongue, Dean_ , which is pretty awesome for me and pretty ok for him, it seems like, if his cock is any indication.

I run my fingers over his ribs as we kiss, down his back. Find his spine and trace it, cup my hand at its base, and if I could, I know, I’d mark him here. Leave some sign that he’s mine. Something more permanent than my fingernails can dig out, than my mouth can suck into his skin. Which I will totally do, I swear, once he decides to let me up for air, to let my lips go for a minute. To let me fucking move.

But he’s got me pinned like a bug, like words stuck on a page. Letters trapped in a line that only make sense when they’re together. When you read them as a whole, as a thing all at once.

Whatever we are, whoever I am, I think, depends on him. On us, together.

He moans and his whole body like shakes with it. Which means mine does, too.

He bites my ear and I say his name, accidentally, and he laughs. Drags his tongue under my jaw and it’s perfect and it’s awful and I say:

“Don’t leave me.”

Turn my face into his hair and say it again. Pretend that he can’t hear.

He pulls his head up and looks down and even in the dark I can feel his eyes in mine.

“Dean,” he says, like he’s a little teary. “I won’t. I won’t. I promise.”

And he kisses me, breathless and sad and as hard as he can and for now, I believe him.

And for now, locked together like this? Hell. I believe in me, too.


End file.
